


Naughty, Naughty

by charliewalkertexasranger



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Blood Kink, Consensual Kink, Genital Torture, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Masochism, No Safeword, One Shot, POV Second Person, Secret Relationship, Smut, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 14:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14546691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliewalkertexasranger/pseuds/charliewalkertexasranger
Summary: Trevor wants to try something. Charlie complies.





	Naughty, Naughty

**Author's Note:**

> **UPDATE 2/11/19:** I wrote this on a whim while having some family issues and it's... really, really shitty. Not shitty enough for me to make it anonymous (especially since it wouldn't be hard to figure out who here writes weird crackfics like this), but you've been warned.

"Just... go. I'm sure this is what I want."

As his voice fades out into nothingness, Trevor looks at you like you just told him you wanted to marry him. You flip the knitting needle in your hand. The metal is cold and hard and woefully unforgiving for what you plan to use it for; you have experience doing this to yourself with other things, so the fear of rigidity is misplaced, but you can't help but notice that anyway. It feels like just minutes ago that you'd stopped by the craft store and bought a four-pack of them, but it's been a couple of hours, now. You had to wait for nightfall. You always have to wait for nightfall.

Trevor's been your lover since tenth grade, but you've never quite done something like this to him. You're glad his parents are out for the weekend, so no one will walk in on you. You've had some close calls when you've done violent or excessively kinky things with him, but never before has he been the victim, the submissive one. It's always been you, the self-identified masochist. But now you're standing here naked, kneeled on his bed in an otherwise empty house, and your dynamic will probably change forever, you think. There'll be no turning back, once you do this. You're sure he'll grow a fondness for the pain of what you're about to do to him, the same way you did, and then, things will be different, because he will no longer be the abuser, but want to be the abused. That doesn't scare you, though. You can make it through anything. You've hidden this secret for almost two years; if you weren't meant to make it, one of you would have given in against the pressure by now.

You reach for his erect cock, examining it in your hand. The tip is a pinkish shade of lavender with all the blood rushing to it. You've done a good job at getting him worked up. You prime the knitting needle.

Trevor groans, low and deep in his throat, and you can feel him stop his body from bucking his hips in protest, a misguided attempt by his lizard brain to convince you not to press something up what is supposed to be an exit-only tunnel. His cock is still solid and heavy in your hand; you know you shouldn't be sounding him if he's hard, but you tighten your grasp on it anyway, clenching it possessively in your fingers as you contemplate how quickly you should allow the metal into his flesh.

There's something about him that has a grip on you. Your stomach feels hot and your breaths come quick, heavy—like his, but less ragged. You're submissive. You like to be led around, and told what to do. If you have to think too hard, you start to hate yourself and every decision you have to make. It's that simple.

But he told you exactly what to do, as you would wish, and you're doing it, and though you kind of like the idea of punishing a cock, your own or someone else's, with a big, thick piece of metal, you can't help but feel a twinge of doubt as you push the tip into his penis. If he doesn't like it, then it's something for you to do. You're the masochistic pervert who likes getting slapped and beaten and tossed around like a crying baby by an abusive father, not him. You're the one who likes to get pushed down by him in the middle of a conversation to end up jostled into the back seat of a car, his big hands squeezing your shoulders with an unforeseen violence as he fucks you mercilessly. You're the one who likes to have him push needles up your taint while you're blindfolded with his favorite bandana. None of that pain shit was ever his to keep. He's too vanilla. He's dating _Jill_ , in the world outside of your meetings; that is the exact definition of vanilla, a boy and a girl and penis-in-vagina sex in the missionary position. He might be fond enough of you to beat you with his bare hands and leave you scrambling to explain your bruises at school the next day whenever he fucks you, but he also just seems like the kind of guy to give and never receive, bent into obligate masculinity by the aching confines of society's vision of what he should be, giving, owning, but never the recipient of pain.

But you don't have it in you to question him, so you proceed. His moist cockhead, fat with the blood necessary to run his stimulated parts, pulls into lips at the urethra like a throbbing, hungry pussy. In the metal goes, being fed up his penis by your fingers and your fingers alone. Moment by moment, taking everything a millimeter at a time, you guide the tip of the knitting needle up his solid shaft until it is cloaked in warm meat. Then you stop, balancing the end not inside of him in your fingers as if it were a cold, taut string, and you survey him.

Sweat oozes down Trevor's forehead in thick droplets like shards of shiny ice. His eyes are troubled, glowing with conflict, and his cheeks are flushed a heavy pink, the color of an unripe watermelon. He watches you with a calculated, impatient intensity, as if you're a judge and he's waiting for you to give him the death penalty. It imparts a freezing sense of anxiety deep in your prickling skin, but you stay cool, and remain in your clumsy pause, scanning him up and down like you're airport security looking for the bulge of a weapon against his naked hip.

The both of you take that moment to breathe, to rest in silent contemplation of what you have done and what you have left undone, all of what is to come. Then you grip the needle, and, gingerly, keeping your hand steady and slow, you feed it further up his dick. His pulse thunders against the bumps of your inner knuckles, thumping through his cut shaft. You see him bite his lip, pushing it up under his teeth; his eyes meet yours, gaze unwavering.

Instead of stopping, instead of giving him a chance to breathe again and decide if he wants to proceed, you continue to force the solid tube right up the length of his stiff, reddened cock. He moans; you like that. It makes your cock tighten up, watching the needle disappear up his penis, further and further, and hearing him crying and moaning in pain as his urethra is stretched beyond what it's used to opening past.

It's like taking his virginity. He's never done this before, and his hole is yours, to use, to abuse for your own pleasure, and, oh, you are getting a unique kind of pleasure out of this; your cock is rammed up against your leg, but you know it's completely solid, because you can feel it pressing into your thigh, rock-hard. Watching your fingers claim his urethra with that cold metal is a special kind of arousing. You're not sure how much longer you can even do it, in fact. It's too good. If you were playing with yourself, you'd have cummed by now. It's like you own him, when he usually owns you, and that is unexplainably hot.

Up it goes. You're more than halfway into his penis when he suddenly winces, and you stop in your tracks. A trickle of blood oozes against the knitting needle, red and thick and dark. You hurt him. His breathing hitches; you hold the needle in place and wait, trying to examine the damage. It wasn't your fault you couldn't feel where the needle was going.

"Charlie," he whimpers, looking at you with pained eyes.

Trevor cries your name because he's used to going to you for comfort, and, right now, he wants comfort. At least, that's how you justify it. He's seventeen and plays a grown man, but he's really just a scared child, at least right now. You mull the morality of your relationship. Maybe he only hurts you because he loves you and he's scared. Is it immoral to abuse him for your own pleasure, then?

The blood does not stop coming, chasing out in ripples. It pools over your hands and soaks his toned thighs in thick, warm clots. He's hurt very badly. He probably has permanent damage. He'll never piss quite right ever again; you stabbed him through the dick with a fucking knitting needle, so of course he'll never be the way he was again. What did you expect?

You're about to pull the needle back out when he puts a hand down, over the back of yours, like armor, and stops you.

"No," Trevor says. "More."

Your breath stops in your throat.

He's just as perverted as you.

On his command, you keep pressing, lining your fingers up just right against the metal of the rod before you ease it in. More blood spurts from his torn urethra, over his hand and over yours, but neither of you stop the other. You both let it happen, and you both participate.

You see his eyes widen, and you hear the noise he makes, like a little stutter in his throat, when the needle starts progressing through the tract again. His mouth widens into a big, round circle, lips pursed around it; he's in immense pain. But you can see the smug smile hidden behind his pupils, and he looks relieved, brows sloped, face untensed. It is a weird expression. But being with Trevor like this is already your daily, or, rather, nightly, given you only really meet to fuck at night, dose of weird.

"It hurts, Charlie," Trevor whines, as if you have the power to do anything about it. "But I... see why you... _mmf_ , _oh_... like pain... _ah_..."

The moans. The breaths. You're not sure how to tell him that he just made your cock pulsate like he grabbed it and started jacking you off with his voice alone, so you affectionately push your forehead against one of his solid pecs and watch the knitting needle as it disappears up his penis. His cockhead looks like someone inserted their fingers into the slit and tried to tear his cock in half with their palms; the head looks in grave danger of splitting, and all the skin on his cock that isn't covered in a slick layer of blood, down around the base and near the ends of his short, thick pubes, is reddish and visibly irritated, as if he took sandpaper to his dick trying to get all the wrinkles on his shaft off.

Lumpy chunks of clotted blood slide out around the rod as you move it, and they end up slopping onto your bare thighs. Trevor moans, high and loud, like this particularly hurts him; you must have found a sensitive spot, or scraped past his pulsating wound in a way that brushed against a bundle of the countless nerves inside his urethra. You can feel the base of his cock going more rigid than usual, and straightening out, as the knitting needle reaches it.

Then, suddenly, after a moment, everything stops. You hit his bladder, and you can't go any further. You give yourself a moment, to survey what you've done, to gauge how much pain he's in. There's no safeword. There's never a safeword. No one says what you do is healthy, but you have no limit on the pain you'll take. You're not yet sure if that applies to Trevor, though. You glance up.

He's got a sick little smile on his face, unbelievably unhinged, and unbelievably smug, too. You can't tell those eyes no, and you don't think he could, either, if he was in that position.

Without exchanging words, you tug the needle out of his urethra until only the sharp end remains dug into his flesh, and his hand, still clenched over yours, tightens dramatically. A flood of red meets you; it pours over your hands, your thighs, the bed. This is going to be a motherfucker to clean up after.

He lets out a little yip and leans in to kiss your neck. You force the needle back into his cock and let him knead your collarbone with his hungry mouth. Greedily he makes his way up your skin, along your shoulder, past your throat, to your ear. He noses away the strands of your long, soft hair, dips your earlobe past his lips, and massages it with his tongue like he's nursing off of you. It feels like nothing you've ever felt before, and in a good way. You reach contentment.

In goes the needle. With one hand you fuck him, in, out, in, out, while the other snakes around to find the base of his penis again, like how you held it at the beginning, and hold it still. You grab and tug; he chomps down on your earlobe in what you can assume is surprise but also could have been a calculated move, given how sensitive earlobes are and how he knows you like being in pain. Your sack aches beneath your hard shaft. You don't know how much longer you can go without touching yourself to Trevor. He's so fucking hot. He knows exactly the right things to do to get you all worked up. He knows how to play you, and Charlie Walker is a boy who loves getting played.

The knitting needle is warm in your palm. You find a good rhythm, a sort of stabbing motion that jerks your hand back and forth, while Trevor continues to nip and suck the sensitive skin around your neck and ear. Blood spurts out of his slit with every single movement, but he seems to like it, because he's moaning while he kisses you, and you're sure it's because he's satisfied. You know what discomfort sounds like, and this isn't it.

For a moment, very little changes. You pump the metal up his cock and he leaves trails of kisses along your body. You stop for a moment and kiss him back, on the mouth, marvelling at how hot and wet and wonderful it is. When you pull away for air, you continue to jerk him with one hand and fuck his bleeding urethra with the other.

"God, it hurts so fucking much!" Trevor groans.

You're not sure if he wants you to stop.

You're not sure if _you_ want to stop.

"Shh," you say, pushing your lips up against his ear. "Cum and I'll drive you to the ER."

"Charlie," Trevor says, his voice suddenly panicked, and not simply pained, as it was. "How do I... _mmf_... explain this... _ah_... to Jill? To the... _aaha_... doctors? My parents?"

You pause for a moment and consider this. What _is_ he supposed to say? There's no way that this amount of blood can be shrugged off. There's no way he can just say that he pissed blood about half an hour ago and wants to make sure he's alright. You obviously hit one of the veins in his penis, and that means there is going to be a visible wound when the doctors use their equipment and look inside his urethra.

"Not my problem," you say. "You wanted me to shove a knitting needle up your dick. I did it. The rest is for you to figure out."

Trevor's striking eyes should be the size of saucers on his chiseled face. But they are strangely relaxed, and that is your first indication that he isn't as mad or conflicted with you as he lets on.

"They're gonna find out! Everyone's gonna find out, and I'm gonna be a... _mm_... laughing stock," he says, and you know then that he likes it. "Yeah, they're all gonna talk about me after I leave, the guy who stabbed himself in the dick... Jill's gonna break up with me 'cause I'm a freak pervert... _fuck_!"

Without warning, Trevor thrusts his hips, jerking the needle in his cock too hard and causing it to slide out in your hand. A rush of blood and cum, mixed into a liquid the consistency of salad dressing and color of fry sauce, seeps out over your hand, only furthering the sticky, dark mess on the bed beneath you.

"Charlie!" he shrieks mid-climax, like he's got a fetish for the sound of your name.

And he should.

You introduced him to this sick shit. It would have occurred to him on his own that doing something kinky would be a good idea, but it would not have come to him without outside influence that injuring himself very badly and continuing to do the thing that had hurt him was a good idea, and it would not have just become in his brain that he'd want people to know what happened to him. You shaped this when you started meeting in secret, and you shaped this when you made him hit you and put needles in your taint and tease you with knives. You're the sole cause of what has happened here, and not just because you did the deed. You sewed the idea into his head, implanted it because you knew that, eventually, he'd give in and try it all himself, and he'd like it.

You study the knitting needle in your hand as he collapses next to you, flanks heaving wildly, breaths ragged. The bed squeals in protest under the sudden impact of his weight.

The rod is slick, from tip to end, in Trevor's blood, even though you only managed to get the needle about three-quarters of the way up his penis before you ran out of urethra to jam it up. There's exposed metal near the base that is somehow still shiny even after the ordeal. It is, indeed, a brand-new needle, purchased for this purpose. That means it's still sharp. It's no wonder that Trevor's hurt. You probably should have gotten an actual sounding rod, or dulled down the sharp piece, but where's the fun with no risk?

You look back down at Trevor. He seems absolutely pathetic, gazing up at you with eyes that gleam with agony and fear and a sick sort of thrill. He's irresistible. When you put the knitting needle down on the bed and focus your attention on your own erect, just as stiff as his was, albeit uninjured and not bleeding, cock, it only takes you about four pumps to feel the incoming edge of your climax, approaching dutifully and as unavoidable and unstoppable as an oncoming train. It's here. You're going to cum all over him. Maybe you won't even clean him up before you take him to the hospital. Everyone will see him and know it was a sexual accident that got him put there, because the urgency of the situation, supposedly, you might add, given that you're doing this on purpose, overrode his need to not walk into a crowded ER covered in his lover's semen. And how are you even going to get him in underwear and pants without ruining them? He's bleeding like a pig with a grilling fork stabbed in its rump.

And they'll see you, too, and if one person at that hospital knows who you are, very possible in a small town, everyone in town and everyone at school will discover that you're Trevor's same-sex lover and this accident was your fault. It'll cause so much unnecessary pain and decimate your social life. Robbie, who through heavy-handed hinting, and remarks spoken facing away from you in a volume he thinks you can't hear has made it abundantly clear that his lifelong friendship is more complex than being innocently platonic, will resent you for not coming out to him and dating him instead. Kirby will think your constant flirting was a ruse to look straight, because that's what it was. And Jill? Jill won't even _look_ at you again. The entire town will know this scandal, and that's exactly what you want, as a masochist.

You can't take any more thinking. It's too much for you. It's overwhelming every synapse in your brain, and you can't hold on... you can't _do_ this anymore.

The blood rushes in your ears and pounds through your heart. There's an overwhelming feeling of release that radiates through every inch of flesh in your aching, hungry body; your sack clenches up beneath your throbbing shaft like a fist and then limpens. You feel heat and nothing else. You shut your eyes. This is too good to be present for.

When the feeling fades, within seconds, the first thing you see is Trevor, as naked as the day he was born and covered in cum and blood and sweat, curled up at your knees. His face is almost pure white, splattered with your semen, and while you want to take everything in, you can't without regret. Reality is coming back for you; you realize what a bad idea this was, and how hurt Trevor could have ended up. He'll be pissing razor blades for a month, and all because of you. His parents are going to have to pay a very rough ER bill, and that's also your fault. You could have put that knitting needle right through his dick and had the tip poke out of the flesh at the base of his shaft. You could have fucked up even worse than this. And now, there's a big risk that people will find out about you, and that is your fault, too.

But you like having that kind of control. Control is an interesting thing. You like having none of it, like when Trevor's beating you and hurting you for your mutual entertainment, and you like having all of it, like right now, even if Trevor is the one who chose what you were to do to him. Maybe you're not as submissive as you thought.

"Let's go clean you up," you say. "Then... everyone gets to know what you did. Naughty, naughty."

You run your fingers through his hair, gummy with semen. He is still panting. One of his eyes is shut; you came all over his eyelid.

"Fuck yeah, babe."


End file.
